by Andy Maslen
— Yeah, if you count pissing about like you’re at the fair. Do you really think he’s just going to stand still while you plug away? Now leave me alone while I shoot.
And Stella feels Other Stella shoving her hard, in the chest, and it’s happening again. She’s lost control. She’s trapped in the trees like a wind-blown carrier bag, fluttering impotently as her Other smirks up at her.
— Watch this, babe, she hears in her head-not-head, because her head is down there, on her body.
— Yes! Stella tries to shout. That’s right. It’s my body. Not yours!
But Other Stella isn’t listening. Other Stella is bored of listening. Bored of waiting. Bored of Stella’s narrow concerns.
—There’s KILLING to be done, Stel.
That’s what Other Stella says now.
— THERE’S KILLING TO BE DONE! LOTS OF KILLING!
And her voice is so harsh, Stella feels it cutting through her … No! Cutting through the nerve fibres that connect them. Other Stella has finished being a passenger. And Stella? Where is she? Where is the detective with so much promise?
She feels her tattered soul shredding on the sharp branches of the tree, splitting along the fault lines, separating into narrow ribbons of self and then, one by one, as the breeze catches them, detaching themselves from the twigs on which they’ve snagged and flying up, twirling like ribbons on a little girl’s plaits, spiralling up, away, into the far elsewhere until …
52
No Witnesses
Other Stella thumbs another five rounds home into the snug, smooth-walled chambers of the cylinder. She enjoys the feel of the cold brass on her printless fingertips. The rounds make quiet little snicks as they slot home. She seats the cylinder back into the frame and raises the snub-nose revolver to her nose. Inhales the delicious smell of burnt cordite deep into her lungs. Her lungs. Yes. It feels good thinking that. She decides she’s had enough of Stella. Why should she have to skulk in the shadows, in the dark recesses of Stella’s dumb, tortured little head until she’s needed? Why shouldn’t she be in charge? Permanently? A voice makes her turn her head.
“Sorry, Ken,” she says with a smile. “Miles away.”
“I said, it’s a gun, not a bunch of flowers. Maybe you should shoot it instead of sniffing it.”
She watches him closely as he speaks. Is that a fleeting frown she spies on that smooth, barely-lined forehead? Did those deep-brown eyes narrow, just for a fraction of a second?
“Of course. Silly me.”
It would be better if she could speak more like Stella. But somehow the words, the phrasing elude her. Unlike the targets she has planned out.
She whirls round, brings the revolver up in a single, flowing movement and looses off all five rounds without pausing.
Three of the cans Ken has reset on the fallen tree fly away as the hollow-points smash into them, tearing razor-sharp gashes through the whisper-thin aluminium skin.
“Oh, I loved that!” Other Stella purrs as she pops out the cylinder and reloads.
She is having to be careful with her voice because she nearly came as the last of the bullets exploded from the stubby barrel.
“Yeah. That was good shooting. Not so cautious as you were before,” Ken says, scratching at his stubble.
“Before?” she asks, turning her gaze on him. And while we’re about it, why did they call you ‘redskins’? Your skin isn’t red. Blood is red. I’d call it cinnamon. Or maybe pale mahogany. I suppose “Kill all the pale-mahogany-skins!” sounds a bit limp if you’re planning a massacre.
“Yeah. The last set, you were kinda edgy. Now you seem more relaxed. And you enjoyed that. I could see it.”
Other Stella pauses before speaking. Not because she’s unsure what to say. She’s calculating.
“What else could you see, Ken?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh come on, don’t be coy.” She twirls the revolver around her index finger. “You saw me arriving, didn’t you?”
Now it’s his turn to pause. Ha! I knew it.
“In Lac La Croix? No. I arrived at Franklyn’s after you, remember?”
“No. Not then. Just now.”
He pulls his chin back and frowns. Spreads his broad-palmed hands wide.
“We got here together. In my truck. Of course I saw you arrive.”
Not a bad act, she thinks. But not good enough.
“Oh, Ken. Kenny-boy. Kenneth White Crow of the Lac La Croix of the Salteaux First Nation, part of the Ojibway tribe. You saw me arrive. And her leave. Didn’t you?”
He steps back. Puts his hands out towards her.
“Yes, I did. Who are you?”
She points the gun at his midriff. Imagines the damage a .38 Special hollow-point will do to his insides at this range.
“Me? I’m Stella Cole. She used to call me ‘Other Stella.’ Which, to be honest, I found a little insulting. But she’s gone now. So Stella’s all we need.”
Ken speaks. His voice is calm. Low.
“You need me, biwiide.”
“No, babe. I really don’t. Not now you’ve witnessed all …” she circles her free hand around her face, “… this.”
She extends her arm and delights in the way his eyes widen. They flick left to a spot behind her as if he’s trying to figure out an escape route. But better men than him have tried to do that and ended up decorating the walls of their clubs or the courtyards of their chambers.
She thumbs the hammer back.
Takes up the pressure on the trigger.
And squeezes.
The bang is as loud as the end of the world. A supernova ignites in her brain. Bright, white light then red and orange fire.
53
Shaman
Looking down at the crumpled body of the biiwide in front of him, the man known among his people as Miskwaadesi, and to the outside world as George Painted-Turtle, shook his head. The wooden club in his right hand was about a foot long and bound with a thong of caribou leather. It had split the biiwide’s scalp, and scarlet blood was flowing freely into the grass.
Before him, Ken White Crow knelt at the woman’s side, holding the back of his hand beneath her nostrils. He looked up at the shaman.
“She’s alive.”
Miskwaadesi nodded, running his left hand through his long, grey hair.
“I know how to hit for sleep or for death.”
“Why did you follow us?”
“She has the look. She harbours an evil spirit. I saw it when you first brought her out here onto our land. When you took her hunting, when you sold her your daddy’s gun from the American war, I knew she was going to try to kill you.”
“We have to get her back. The one that arrived just now? The one you saw? She was not there before. You have to help save Stella from the maji-manidoo.”
Together, the two men carried the inert form back to Ken’s pickup truck and laid her in the loadspace. Miskwaadesi bandaged her scalp with a pad of soft fabric and secured it with a wider version of the thong around his club.
Back in the town, Ken parked outside Miskwaadesi’s house, a large, two-storey, log-built building at the end of a long, tree-lined street. Together, they dragged and then carried the unconscious woman from the truck bed and inside.
“Bring her in back,” Miskwaadesi said.
Ken picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. “In back” was a windowless room about twelve feet square. Hand-woven mats in shades of red ochre, mustard-yellow and pine-green covered the floor. At their centre stood a wide, flat, steel dish, its centre blackened by soot. A wooden rocking chair dominated one corner. The other three were occupied by a tall, fat-bellied drum, a wooden sculpture depicting a seal and hunter, and a woven grass basket of rattles, feathered sticks and arrows. The walls were draped with animal skins, and hung with grotesque masks with stretched mouths and elliptical eyes. The only light came from a hurricane lamp hanging from a bracket nailed to the wall.
Stooping to let Stella slide from his shoulder,
Ken let her down gently onto the rugs, lying on her right side so as not to disturb the improvised dressing to the head wound. Her breathing was shallow, and she had not, as yet, opened her eyes.
“Now leave us, my son,” Miskwaadesi said. “I need to speak to the biwiide myself.”
The pain when she came round almost made Stella pass out again. She groaned and lifted her hand to her head, wincing and yelping as her probing fingers found the lump beneath the dressing.
“Oh, Jesus! What happened?” she asked. Then she caught sight of the man sitting in the rocking chair. “Who are you? Where’s Ken?”
“My name is George Painted-Turtle. I am the shaman of the Lac La Croix. Ken White Crow has gone. You are here because you tried to shoot him.”
Stella wiped her forehead, which was slick with sweat. She felt sick. Not just the nausea caused by the throbbing pain in her head. She felt sick because she already knew what had happened.
“Did you hit me?”
“I hit somebody, yes. Did I hit you? I don’t know. You tell me.”
He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and stared at her. His face was lined, deep craggy grooves on his cheeks and fanning out from the corners of his eyes. The look said, trust me. Trust me or else. Stella sighed. I’m out of options.
“I have a, I mean, sometimes there’s another version of me. I call her Other Stella. She’s violent and she hurts me. It was her who tried to shoot Ken. It was her you bashed on the head, not me. I like Ken. He’s been good to me, really good. Please be careful. If she comes back I don’t know what she’ll do. I can’t stop it happening. I can’t stop her happening. It used to be stress that made her appear, but recently she’s just, I don’t know, taking over whenever she feels like it.”
The shaman nodded. He stood and came to sit beside Stella. He took her hand in his, which was hard and dry, like polished wood.
“In Ojibway we have a word. Maji-manidoowaadizi. Say it.”
Stella tried to wrap her tongue round the unfamiliar syllables.
“Ma-ji-mani-do-wad-izzi?”
“That is OK for a biwiide. You listen. That is also good.”
“What does it mean?”
“Possessed by an evil spirit. By a maji-manidoo.”
“That sounds about right. Can you help me? You didn’t kill me out there in the woods, even though you could have.”
George Painted-Turtle nodded.
“Yes. I can remove the spirit. But you have to help me to help you. You must go inside your soul and fight it. Destroy it. But first you have to be ready. You will have to go into a trance. We say inaabam. It means to see things as if in a dream.”
Stella had by now pushed herself into a sitting position, though the flashes of pain that kept jolting through her brain were making her dizzy.
“Tell me what to do. If I can, I’ll do it.”
“First, you must fast. Three days. I will bring you water. OK?”
“OK. Three days of fasting. Then what?”
“Then we will drink ozhaawashko-aniibiish together. It is a tea made with herbs and a special mushroom.”
At the mention of mushrooms, Stella smiled.
“You mean psilocybin?”
George grunted acknowledgement.
“That is the gichi-mookomaan word, yes.”
“White people?”
“Uh-huh. Or Americans. Sometimes we get kids travelling up here looking for the authentic First Nations experience. They want to take ozhaawashko-aniibiish.”
“What do you say to them?”
“I tell them to fuck off to Mexico and try ayahuasca instead.”
Stella laughed, even though it set off a small grenade at the back of her skull. She groaned, but was happy she’d found something to laugh about, given her precarious mental state.
“Can you rescue my stuff from Maureen’s?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“It’s safe enough there. I’ll call her and let her know you’re staying here for a while. Now, give me your phone, your watch, and any jewellery.”
Naturally slender, and a runner to boot, Stella had never dieted. Her trouble, if that’s what you could call it, was mainly directed towards keeping her weight up, not down. After losing Richard and Lola, she’d lost virtually all her body fat, and had embarked on a dedicated programme of eating high-fat, processed foods to pile the pounds back on. Fasting, she discovered, was deeply unpleasant. Locked in the back room of George Painted-Turtle’s house and only allowed out, under supervision, to use the toilet, she realised just how much of a struggle anyone on hunger-strike had on their hands. Or their guts. To begin with, she merely experienced the normal pangs of an empty stomach. Initially she’d even considered them pleasant, as though anticipating a good meal. When no food was forthcoming, her stomach had protested more vigorously, cramping, and crying out in a discordant symphony of growls, squeaks and grumbles for food to fill it. By the end of the first day, she craved something to eat, however small. A single peanut or crisp would have been enough, she felt. George brought her a glass of water instead.
With nothing to occupy her, not a book, not a magazine, and certainly no music, Stella wandered around the room, measuring its dimensions with carefully calibrated paces. Four by four if she took exaggeratedly long strides. Five by five if she paced more normally. She examined the designs of the rugs, which bore striking representations of antlered deer – elk, maybe, or caribou – wolves and rabbits, plus large birds she took to be eagles, judging from their white heads. Then the hunger pangs would come back, asserting their right to dominate her thoughts.
Curling up in a corner, she tried to sleep, and eventually dozed off, before waking in a sweat. With no natural light penetrating the gloomy interior, she had no way of knowing how long she’d been asleep. She hadn’t dreamt, she knew that.
In this way, the days passed.
Periods of wakefulness were interspersed with light, dreamless sleep, then periods of vivid dreaming in which she imagined she was flying with the eagles from the rug. Every two hours, George would unlock the door and bring her a glass of water, always politely asking if she needed the toilet. Even that brought no clue as to the time of day as he had shrouded the bathroom’s high window with thick curtains and she felt too weak to attempt to move them, feeling sure he’d also closed the external shutters.
The pangs of hunger had disappeared sometime during what she estimated was the second day. What appeared in their place was worse. A desperate craving for food that was more mental than physical. She felt light-headed all the time, dizzy if she tried to stand and woozy if she lay down. Worst of all, from time to time she could hear Other Stella’s voice in the distance. The sound was too indistinct for Stella to discern individual words, but the tone was impossible to mistake. Sarcastic. Mocking. And something else. Something much worse. Other Stella sounded threatening.
She fell asleep curled into a foetal position on the rugs. She woke, her skin prickling and her eyes painful in their sockets. George was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the steel bowl from her.
The sounds that came from his mouth seemed out of sync with the movements of his lips, as if she were watching a badly dubbed foreign-language film.
“What did you say?” she croaked.
“It is time.”
From a soft leather pouch at his waist, he pulled a bunch of dried herbs. He took a battered brass Zippo lighter from a pocket and flipped open the lid with a metallic click. The rasp as his thumb turned the wheel against the flint sounded deafening in the silence and the bright yellow flame that jumped up seemed to dance rhythmically before her tired eyes. He lit the dried leaves, which ignited with a crackle before he dabbed his palm against the flames to extinguish them. George passed the bunch of smouldering herbs under Stella’s nose and she coughed as the sweet-smelling smoke entered her lungs. Then he laid them in the centre of the steel dish.
All this time, he chanted under his breath. Stella strained
to pick out one of the Ojibway words she’d heard either from Ken, or George himself, but all she heard was the singsong intonation.
Though she hadn’t noticed in the gloom, George had set a simple wooden tray on the rug beside him. It held a dark-green teapot, made of what she took to be bronze, and two brown-glazed clay cups. He poured a darkish liquid from the teapot, filling both cups to the brim.
He stopped singing, and Stella felt the absence of the chant almost as an echo inside her mind.
“This is the ozhaawashko-aniibiish,” he said. “After you drink, I will ask you to look straight at me while I tell you the story of the first shaman to journey into his own mind. You will not be aware of the moment you pass through, but I will, and I will be alongside you as you battle your maji-manidoo, the one you call Other Stella.”
“But what if she takes over? She’ll try to kill you.”
George shook his head.
“In here? No. This is a sacred place. She has no power here.” He leant forward and tapped Stella’s forehead. “In there is the only place she has power. Now drink.”
He offered her one of the cups and she took it from his hands with her own. Watching him for clues on the appropriate ritual way to drink, she was surprised to see that he just knocked it back. He shrugged.
“It tastes disgusting,” he said.
Stella brought the cup to her lips and caught an acrid smell from the surface of the brown liquid. She wrinkled her nose. Then she tipped her head back and drank the cup down in one. She gagged as the foul-tasting, tepid tea hit the back of her throat. Held it down. And placed the cup back on the tray.
“I’m ready,” she said, feeling dizzy and weighted down onto the floor at the same time. “Tell me about the first shaman.”
As George began speaking in Ojibway, Stella tried to stay aware of her own state of mind. But she kept drifting off. Bringing her focus back to George’s face, she noticed that he looked a lot younger – no, not younger, smoother – than he had a minute before. The crevasses that had criss-crossed his cheeks had gone. His eyes looked clearer, too. Then he spoke to her in English.
